


Words of Devotion

by jehannaford



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Body Calligraphy, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Hedonism, Love, Poetry, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 11:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18915850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehannaford/pseuds/jehannaford
Summary: Papa's lover spends an evening covering him with writing.





	Words of Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> I've been intrigued by the idea of writing on a lover's body for a while now. This little story is an exploration of that.
> 
> The poem quoted during the course of the story can be found here: 
> 
> https://vulpeslibris.wordpress.com/2013/05/20/medieval-irish-love-poem/

“I had an idea for something we could do tonight. Come see?”

I’d lit a few votive candles in our room, and spread a sheet over the blankets on the bed. I put on some soft music. Gregorian chants, you might think, if you didn’t know Latin. These were in praise of Lucifer, though the style was the same.

He looked over my preparations with a small smile, and raised an eyebrow.

I showed him my tools, laid out on the endtable.

“I have a brand new calligraphy brush, and homemade, washable ink. How would you like to be covered in poetry?”

He laughed, and ran a hand gently over my hair.

“Like in _The Pillow Book_? All right, dolce.” He shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’s wanted to do that to me before….”

“You weren’t dating a nerd from the scriptorium before.”

He grinned. “You have a point.”

I watched him undress. He slid out of his clothes slowly, teasingly–he never could resist playing up to an audience. Then he got into bed, rolled onto his side facing me, and ran a hand affectedly through his hair.

“Paint me like one of your French girls!”

“Dork.”

He snickered, and finally rolled onto his back.

He was pale, nearly hairless, and very slender. There was something fey about him; he looked almost delicate, though he was anything but. The men of the Bloodline were demon-sired and very strong, and he was no exception. Still, he looked ethereal, stretched out in the dimly-lit room, green and white eyes half-lidded as he relaxed and waited for me to begin.

This beautiful man–my high priest, my lover, my heart’s safe harbor–was everything to me.

To all the rest of the clergy and lay faithful, he was Papa. But for me, he was Terzo, my beloved Three.

I sat next to him on the bed, and slowly began to write. As I completed the lines, I read them to him.

_My love is no short year’s sentence._  
_It is a grief lodged under the skin,_  
_Strength pushed beyond its bounds;_  
_The four quarters of the world,_  
_The highest point of heaven._

It was an old Irish love poem, and I read it to him in the original language, with all its strange music.

“How do you feel, my love?”

“It’s a little like being stroked with a feather…or a feather-light touch….”

“Oh, you mean like _this_?”

His breath caught, and he laughed a little. “Yes. _Just_ like that.”

He leaned into my touch, lifting his hips off the bed. I stroked him gently for a moment more, and then stopped.

He let out a soft whine. “Patience. I’m not done with you yet.”

I finished writing across his arms, down his chest and thighs.

_It is_  
_A heart breaking or_  
_Battle with a ghost,_  
_Striving under water,_  
_Outrunning the sky or_  
_Courting an echo._

I gestured to him to roll over, and he lay on his front, head pillowed on his arms.

I gave him a quick smack on the ass, and he yelped. “What was _that_ for?”

“You’re too cute. I couldn’t resist.”

He looked over his shoulder at me and winked.

I covered him with words, a work of literature on a work of art.

_So is my love, my passion_  
_and my devotion_  
_To him to whom I give them._

At last it was done. I removed my habit and lay down beside him.

He stretched, and turned to face me. “Would you like to take a shower together?”

“Well, we _could_ do that….”

“Or?”

“I told you the ink was homemade?”

“Yes….”

“.…it’s edible.”

His eyes lit up, and his voice dropped to a low growl.

“ _Now_ you’re talking!”

**Author's Note:**

> This story has an illustration now! It can be seen here:
> 
> https://atricksterproblem.tumblr.com/post/185078387661/please-enjoy-this-beautiful-illustration
> 
> Many thanks to @storm-ghoul for drawing it!


End file.
